by Bromberg, K
Next to me, Doreen sighed. “They’ve been like that since they were kids.”
“They’re cute.”
“You haven’t touched your wine. Do you want to try another bottle?”
“It’s late, and I think the long drive dehydrated me. I don’t want to get a headache.”
“I have just the thing.”
The pool’s surface slapped and swayed. Byron got out from under Logan and flipped his wet hair out of his eyes to look at me with a grin that was only possible on a face that was relaxed with a heart that was happy. I’d never seen him like that, and I took a moment to file the memory of it before following Doreen into the kitchen.
“One of our cooks made us a lemonade,” she said, taking a glass pitcher from the huge refrigerator. When it closed, it looked like another cabinet. “Do you like ginger? She shaves a little in with lime zest, and it’s wonderful.”
“Sure.”
“So, you’re a swimmer?”
“High school, so not really anymore. I just wanted Byron to stop thinking I’d drown.”
She poured plopped ice from the bucket into two tall glasses. “He’s usually fine, but after he found Samantha…” She cringed. “Did he tell you that?”
“I’m glad you did.”
“I shouldn’t have.”
“Now I know not to play dead in the pool.”
She poured the lemonade pensively. “It changed him.”
“How?”
I didn’t expect her to answer, but she must have made up her mind to do so in the time it took her to put the pitcher away.
“He’s been a bit closed off since then. Tightly wound, if you know what I mean.”
“I sure do.”
“When I heard you were coming,” she handed me a glass,“I was so happy. He hasn’t mentioned a woman in five years.”
“It’s not all that serious.” You might have a grandchild though.
“Well, he brought you here. He must think very highly of you.”
We can’t stand each other.
She was prodding me because her son must have told her next to nothing about me or why I was there. I didn’t want to lie to such a kind, cordial person, but I couldn’t tell her the truth either.
“Lemonade toast.” I lifted my glass. “To people we think highly of.”
She clicked with me just as Lyric and all her friends came in, chatting and giggling. Behind them, the two sodden brothers talked at the edge of the pool with their father. Across the patio, Byron’s eyes met mine. Though he may have thought highly of me, he had raw, carnal hunger on his mind. He stripped me naked without laying a finger on me, and for the first time since we met, I forgot I hated him.
* * *
Was it the magic of a healthy family that turned down the heat of my loathing? Over the kitchen counters and enough lemonade to send me to the bathroom twice, Doreen and Ted asked me about my life, my childhood, and my famous mother while Byron sat quietly. He interjected to wisecrack or ask a clarifying question he usually knew the answer to, but otherwise he left it to his parents to charm me until close to midnight, when Doreen rubbed her neck as if it ached.
“Cinderella didn’t actually turn into a pumpkin at midnight,” Ted said, holding his hand out to his wife.
“Her dress disappeared,” I added.
“Well, I’d better get my wife to bed before then.”
Doreen took his hand and stood. “Dancing with a prince can take it out of you.” With Ted helping her keep her balance, she leaned over to plant a kiss on my cheek. “It was great to meet you. Nellie will be here bright and early to make us breakfast.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Good night,” Ted said, leading Doreen out of the room slowly, as if she needed him to help her get there.
I caught sight of Byron watching them go, and for the second time that night, I felt as though I was seeing a wistful expression I wasn’t meant to.
“Is she all right?” I asked.
“The Parkinson’s gets worse when she’s tired.”
So many questions rushed to get through, and my manners were such a well-trained bodyguard that I froze with my lips parted.
“Not hereditary,” Byron said as if he knew the most pressing question. “Not her case at least. We’ve all been checked out. My mother is the victim of a random environmental mutation.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That’s terrible.”
“It is, but the medication helps, and she has my father, so it’s tolerable.”
The sentiment behind his statement was the last thing I’d expected from Byron Crowne. He was a man who powered through life, not one who believed two people could find comfort in each other’s arms.
“I’m wiped out.” I took my glass to the sink and turned on the faucet.
“We have a staff to take care of that.”
“My mother didn’t raise me to leave dishes.”
From behind me, he turned off the water and took the glass from my hand. “Your mother raised you well. But our dirty dishes support a dozen people. Let them do their jobs.”
I faced him, and he put his hands on the counter on either side of me. His hair had dried, but when I laid my hands on his waist, his shirt was damp and cool.
“Fine,” I said. “You win.”
“Get used to it.” He ran his nose along my cheek.
“I’m really tired.”
“How tired?”
“Too tired for a visit tonight.”
He pulled away just enough to let me see the flecks of his eyes. They weren’t green but a mix of blue and light brown. How had I not seen that before?
“Is that your final word?”
“Yes.”
His eyes grew more distant as he leaned away. “Let me walk you up, then.”
As he led me through the formal dining room, I stopped at a large painting. It was square, four feet by four feet, probably oil, rendered with traditional strokes. The scene was outdoors, bordered by large desert palms with a floor of California poppies. The eight members of the Crowne family sat on a blue checkered blanket facing the viewer. Ted and Doreen on either side but leaning toward each other. Doreen had a book on one knee and her arm around a toddler in a pink dress. A tear ran down the little girl’s cheek as if she’d just gotten over a tantrum. One boy of about seven or so had his hand on her shoulder, comforting her. Another boy, close in age, sat with his knees up, facing away from the rest of his family. I recognized green-eyed, early-teen Byron in his jeans and polo, but his hair was a mess and he was making rabbit ears behind his serious brother Logan’s back with one hand. With the other, it looked as though they were having a tug-of-war over a Lego build.
“I almost didn’t recognize you with the smile,” I said.
He scoffed. “The artist spent a month with us. She’s supposedly famous for capturing relationships. Personalities. That kind of thing.”
“Who’s this?” I pointed at a stern-looking boy of about seven years standing behind Ted.
“Liam. And this is Colton.” The boy had on a bright, mismatched outfit and held a donut in his hand. The other was behind his back. “He was about nine.”
“Liked donuts, did he?”
“He likes pleasure and detests hard work.”
“A bacchanalian.”
“She got him right. The rest of us, I don’t know.”
Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he was in denial or making sure he kept his mask on straight. I thought the artist had been onto something Byron didn’t want me to see.
“Ready?” Byron said, heading for the stairs.
I followed him to my bedroom door. “This is fun,” I said with my hand on the knob. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Good night.” He laid his hand on the doorknob to his room.
“Good night.”
We paused, and I considered a visit across the hall. But he broke the spell, opening his door first as if he was determined to respect my wish to sleep. I turned
the knob. We went into our rooms at the same time.
Chapter 12
OLIVIA
I left the curtains open, thinking they faced west and I’d be greeted by soft morning light. But they were south-facing enough to let the full blast of the sun edge onto my sleeping face.
When I got out of the shower, I heard women talking and the sound of a broom on the hall floor. Outside, a man skimmed the pool, and another pruned the grape leaves.
Lured by the smell of bacon, I went to the kitchen. A woman with a short, tight afro and navy apron had four pans going. Bacon, sausage, eggs, ham. She was shucking a watermelon that had given its life to participate in a bowl of fruit salad.
“Hi,” I said. “You must be Nellie?”
She glanced up from scooping poached eggs for only a moment. “I am.” Her accent had a Louisiana patois. “Can I make you an omlette?”
“I can wait for the poached, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll make you some. Coffee’s up on the patio. The orange juice is fresh.”
“Thank you.”
A sideboard of food had been set up on the deck on the other side of the doors. No one seemed to be up except Logan, who scrolled through an iPad screen with a notebook in front of him. I got myself coffee and a croissant, then sat silently at the table so he could finish writing his notes.
“Good morning,” he said. “Sleep all right?”
“I did. Thank you.”
He laid his pencil to the side, closed the book, and turned the iPad facedown. “So. Olivia Monroe. You look like your mother.”
“That’s what I’m told.”
“Have you done any modeling?”
“My mother taught me that’s not a long-term plan.”
A woman came out with a plate of poached eggs and toast, setting it before Logan. Another refilled his coffee.
“Thank you,” he said to her before addressing me. “So, you went to Loyola Law. Why not Princeton?”
Telling me what I already knew about myself must have been his way of telling me he’d looked into my background deeply enough to know which schools I’d turned down. If that was his game, I could play. I had nothing to hide.
“They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” I took a sip of coffee, but it was too hot, and I cringed.
He slashed an egg with the side of his fork, letting the yolk drip over his toast. “There’s a saying: if you want to know a woman, don’t look at what she accepts. Look at what she rejects.”
“You can say the same for men.”
He gave a short nod. “Maybe.” He put a piece of egg and toast in his mouth and paused to chew. “So, it was money?”
“It gets cold in New Jersey,” I said. “I’m a thin-blooded California girl. And also, yes. Money. Loyola picking up the tab in a temperate climate was better than freezing my ass off for half tuition.”
“Smart.”
“You have me at a disadvantage,” I said. “I have no idea where you went.”
“Stanford. Two years. Then I dropped out.”
“Why?”
The woman who had brought Logan’s eggs brought me a similar plate. I thanked her, and when she left, he answered.
“There was only one thing in the world I ever wanted, and staying wasn’t going to get me any closer to it.”
“Let me guess. The flying trapeze.”
He laughed. “Not exactly. I wanted to run Crowne Industries, but my brother had three years on me. If I was going to catch up, I couldn’t waste any time learning the business. I figured he’d fight to the death for it.”
“You won, I guess?”
He shook his head and sliced his egg with a casual confidence. “He gave it up to do his own thing. The spec houses.”
“He’s making a real success of it. This one he has going now is huge.”
“And you’re invested in stopping him.” He isolated one piece and stabbed it. “You might win too.” He scraped the fork on his teeth.
“I will win.”
“Here’s the thing.” Logan laid down his fork. “You seem all right. But you have a conflict here. This friendship, or whatever you’re calling it, with my brother will get complicated no matter who wins. And my investment…our investment in Byron’s success is more than financial.”
He left it there as if he’d given me enough information to infer where his interests and his brother’s parted ways. I picked up my coffee. It was cool enough to drink. I took a big swallow.
“If he fails,” I said after my cup clicked in the porcelain saucer, “you’re back to competing for your job.”
“Not much of a competition, but sure.” He gave a cocky shrug. Chatter and dishes clacking rose from the kitchen. “Let’s say… sure. I’m not in the mood to win a succession fight. The point is I don’t want to see him hurt by that or anything. Now, I’m not one to get between my brothers and the women they bring home, but in this case, I want you to know I’m not going to sit by and watch this turn ugly.”
I couldn’t help but smile. What was in the water in the Crowne household that made these boys so primed for battle?
“What turn ugly?” Byron’s voice came from the doorway to the kitchen. He wore running shoes and a sweaty T-shirt. He pulled it up, exposing his washboard stomach, and wiped his face with the hem.
“Your fucking face,” Logan said.
Byron didn’t believe him. I could read it like a well-lit billboard in the middle of the night.
“Logan thinks the environmental lawsuit isn’t going away. He wants me to play nice.”
Byron scoffed and poured a cup of coffee. “You don’t know her.” He sat next to me, stretching out as if the chair was a couch. “She plays to win.”
“I play fair.” I pressed my fork into an egg until it bled onto the toast.
“That’s good to know,” Logan said.
“Do you ride?” Byron asked me. “Horses.”
“When I was younger.”
“We have a stable down the hill. I can have someone tack up for you. We can ride the trail to Royal Ridge and be back before it gets too hot.”
“Sounds great.” I finally took a bite of my breakfast. It was delicious.
When I glanced at Byron, he was gazing at me with a distrust I hadn’t seen since the day we met.
Chapter 13
BYRON
Logan wasn’t to be trusted with Olivia. He wouldn’t try to fuck her, but he’d make it a point to work the angles so I’d be fucked. I was the only other man in the world who could run Crowne Industries, so I was the only one who put the fear of God into him. Fear was a bad decision-maker.
“What the hell was that?” After a shower, I found him exactly where I expected. Working in the office, banging at his laptop as if he was pissing on his territory.
“What was what?”
I came around to his side of the desk and slapped his laptop closed. “I heard the whole thing.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” He leaned back and looked at me as if we were having a casual conversation. “Oh, wait. You wanted to see what she’d say. Am I right?”
“I’m not discussing Olivia.”
“Did her answer satisfy you?”
The problem with my brother in any position of power was that he was too aboveboard for his own good. If he didn’t tell the full truth in words, I could easily read the entirety of his scheme on his face.
“Leave her alone,” I said. “She’s not that important.”
“Our mother thinks it’s serious with you two. Said she had the tingle as soon as she saw her.”
“Jesus.” I fell into a chair.
He’d taken the wind right out of me. My mother’s foolproof way of discerning a couple’s longevity struck the back of her neck. It hadn’t been wrong yet.
“Yeah,” Logan said. “She even waved her fingers that way she does.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Good idea. She’s so excited she practically did a step dance. She thought, af
ter Samantha, you’d never bring anyone around. But you go ahead and ruin her week. Tell her the tingle’s wrong. Promise her you’re going to mope around the rest of your life.”
“Excuse me?” I snapped, and he swallowed hard, knowing he’d overstepped.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”
“You’ve never lost anyone. I’d never wish it on you.”
“I know. But—”
“But?”
“But it’s possible you’ve started to come out of grieving. It’s possible you’re vulnerable to a woman who’s looking to give herself an edge.”
I laughed. I had to.
He was right.
If anyone would go to extraordinary lengths to gain an advantage, it was Olivia Monroe.
And if there was any woman I trusted wasn’t doing exactly that, it was her.
* * *
I found Olivia sitting on the couch with my mother, looking at photo albums. They were cooing at a picture of me at five wearing a Superman costume to the kindergarten Halloween party.
“You were so cute!” Olivia exclaimed when she saw me.
This whole huddled meetup… brought to you by the fucking tingle.
“We should go.”
“Wait!” Mom held up one hand and flipped through pages with the other. “This was the year after! He wouldn’t let us buy him a new one! And look how happy he was.”
I knew the picture. Bigger me in the same costume. Belt too small. Little red underwear sagging at the crotch because I’d pulled at them all day, blissed out on being the same guy I’d been the year before. If I could have worn it a third year, I would have.
“Do you still have it?” Olivia asked Mom.
“I do.”
“Okay,” I snapped. “Let’s not. Shall we?”
“He wasn’t always such a stick in the mud,” my mother murmured to Olivia.
“Courtney’s got the horses tacked,” I said.
“Are you going to Dead Man’s Grove?” Mom closed the album. “Nellie can pack you a lunch.”
